


cast-iron pot

by Little Giant (Destini)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Argentina, Argentina National Team, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Homesickness, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:22:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27291880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destini/pseuds/Little%20Giant
Summary: For the first time in a while, Oikawa’s heart hammers and he peers around at streets that don’t have any semblance of Japan in their rocks and trees that will never hold flowing snowbells, tiger lilies, or lacecap hydrangeas. He wonders distantly what they’re called in Spanish.a short story about homesickness and getting lost the right way
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru & Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	cast-iron pot

**Author's Note:**

> It's my birthday :)) so I'm uploading older fics!

There’s a cast-iron pot sitting over outdoor flames, something in it bubbling. It’s loud even from where he jogs in place at the other end of the small yard with its dirty tricycles and potted herbs and scattered chairs. It’s the kind of pot that Oikawa knows is heavy and only wielded in its weapon-like tenure by a strict grandmother. It’s the sight that makes him nostalgic for Iwaizumi’s family gatherings, being dragged along unseen by his hand under and past vaguely familiar giants.

He remembers stumbling and crawling under a table, eating something sticky, sweet, and hot that Iwaizumi told him to try because it was “his auntie’s favorite.” And it was good. But Oikawa hadn’t asked for more, somehow full and content with watching the pudgy-cheeked Iwaizumi lick his fingers.

But this yard is empty, there’s no one to tell him to stand straight and introduce himself properly and no tables to hide under. Oikawa’s made several wrong turns in his run, he’s sure. He doesn’t get lost often anymore, more confident in his Spanish than he’s ever been, and yet the façade of control crumbles across from boiling heat and the smell of garlic.

He turns away, running a hand in frustration through brown locks and resisting the urge to kick at dirt. His phone battery is low, turned off the moment Oikawa saw the five percent bar. It’s probably enough for one emergency phone call—if any of Club Atletico San Juan even picks up at 6am on a rest day.

For the first time in a while, Oikawa’s heart hammers and he peers around at streets that don’t have any semblance of Japan in their rocks and trees that will never hold flowing snowbells, tiger lilies, or lacecap hydrangeas. He wonders distantly what they’re called in Spanish.

“Chico. ¿Estás perdido?”

Oikawa blinks and turns to see an elderly woman with a giant ladle in hand leaving her creaky front door. Still wearing her night cap, she easily waddles over to the pot, plopping the ladle in and stirring before furrowing her eyebrows at him. She’s short and pudgy compared to him, but he shrinks under hardened brown eyes.

“¿Hablas español?”

He doesn’t feel like he speaks Spanish, but after some deliberation Oikawa nods and forces a smile. It doesn’t matter that he’s been wandering for over thirty minutes; the embarrassment and pity from a stranger isn’t on his list of things to have. “Lo siento. Sí, estoy perdido. ¿Cuál es la… la—”

She shakes her head and slips the ladle out, waving it at him with a vigor and confidence that rivals his own mother. The woman beckons him and Oikawa awkwardly steps forward. Maybe she’s hard of hearing? But she grabs his wrist and sits him down in the nearest chair by the pot. Why were old ladies so strong? Oikawa’s head spins as she continues to talk to him—or maybe at him—in a commanding voice.

“Es temprano en la mañana. Come sopa y mi nieta te ayudará cuando se despierta.”

It’s a bit too fast for him to grasp, especially under the gravel of her voice. Something about eating and waiting for a daughter.

Oikawa can’t work his lips to protest before the woman presses the ladle into his palm and she scurries back inside. Well, the soup _does_ smell good at least. Familiar, although he can’t place it. Maybe he smelled it at some restaurant he ate at recently.

She returns with a preciously and amateurly-engraved stone bowl and silver spoon, trading it for the ladle and spooning some of the boiling contents into it for him. The woman doesn’t tell him to eat, but her eyes are demanding as they watch him.

“… Gracias,” he nods again.

He spoons some and blows on it, not waiting for the food to cool as long as he usually does in fear the woman will think he’s rude.

It burns when it hits the back of his throat and his eyes widen.

Now he knows why it smelled familiar. Oikawa’s lips curl up as he gulps the soup down, a small laugh escaping him while he battles the urge to cry. From the heat or from the relief, he doesn’t know.

It’s not exactly the same, but it’s a version of Japanese cream stew with an unmistakable taste of roux. The woman mimics his laugh, soft and forceful fingers pinching his cheek, satisfied with his reaction.

“Deliciosa, eh?”

“Si. Muchas gracias.”

She pulls another chair closer to him, the legs scraping dirt, before his host is folding her arms and leaning back. The pot continues to boil and she holds the ladle tight, completely at ease with this foreign stranger sitting next to her as tired eyes close.

Oikawa slowly continues to eat, watching at the frown lines that disappear into relaxation and the way her stomach moves up and down, shifting the ladle in her deep breaths. She’d probably hit him with it, no language required to voice her displeasure. Not so different. He chuckles before his gaze finds the sky, the same shade of blue he’s always known.

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter post of this fic: [link](https://twitter.com/OfLittleGiants/status/1322331976016289795?s=20)


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